


To You

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cabins, Christmas, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, SPN Holiday Mixtape, Serious Injuries, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Secluded in the mountains of Whitefish, the boys take refuge after a nasty hunt lands them injured and rattled on Christmas Eve.





	

 

Castiel hisses when Dean pulls the last stitch through, nimble yet bloodied fingers tying a hard knot through the thread and snipping off the excess. “Bet you’re gonna want that drink now?” Dean says, voice rough, and faintly he can feel his tooth ache in the back of his mouth, the result of a punch that thankfully didn’t crack anything, but left him bruised nonetheless.

At the head of the bed, Castiel nods and Dean hands him the flask he keeps on his hip. Castiel downs half of it in one swallow and, twisting the cap closed, tosses it on the bed near Dean’s bare knee. This was supposed to be easy, Dean considers in hindsight. Then again, everything is with his and Sam’s expertise, and now Castiel too, the Angel a permanent staple in their lives since his partial retirement from the Spheres. A string of murders in the mountains outside of Whitefish, all committed by what looked to be a werewolf, or a pack.

Even hours after the incident, Dean laughs at his own stupidity. The damn thing—a bakeneko, from what Castiel ventured before the thing launched at his face—got the jump on them near Moose Peak and nearly took them all down with it. Now, Dean has a new collection of scars ripping across his chest and neck and one over his eye, Sam is nursing a broken wrist and possibly arm, and Castiel’s shoulder and arm are torn to shreds, only Dean’s patchwork keeping him together, at least until Castiel can heal himself.

One stipulation of Castiel’s retirement—he retains his Grace and wings, if only to keep himself alive. Dean and Sam can heal on their own fine, albeit slower than they would appreciate. But the longer Dean thinks about it, the less he wants Castiel to die in some horrific accident and be lost to the ether with no room in Heaven after his passing.

And Dean knows, Castiel wants nothing more than to live.

“Are you sure Sam’ll be alright?” Castiel asks, absently rubbing at the stitch running up his forearm; Dean pushes his hand away with narrowed eyes. “I haven’t heard him this quiet in a while.”

Dean nods, rubs the back of his neck; inwardly, he bites back a whimper, fingers coming in contact with a particularly nasty welt. “Think we’re all tired,” Dean guesses, busying himself by gathering up his medical kit and tossing out the used needles and leftover thread. He finishes off by placing gauze over the last of Castiel’s lacerations, until he’s covered in at least four strips of bandages. “…Don’t think we’ve been that wrong in a while.”

“All the signs pointed to the wolves,” Castiel concedes. He flexes his fingers in his lap, wincing when they’re outstretched. A sprain, Dean guesses; Castiel fought the cat with his bare hands and practically strangled it while Sam rammed an Angel blade into its skull. “There hasn’t been a bakeneko sighting in decades, let alone…”

“Here,” Dean finishes with a sigh. “… Do you really think it was someone’s pet? Y’know, the whole…”

Castiel shrugs. “I doubt it, but I’m not one to say. Yokai can come in various forms, and one just happens to be a pet.” Both he and Dean look to the window, snow blanketing the forest floor outside of the cabin walls, as well as the sill outside. “…Whatever it was, it’s at peace now.”

For what it’s worth, Dean hopes so. “‘M gonna check on Sam,” Dean says after a pregnant pause, a moan slipping free when he stands, legs still trembling ever so slightly. He probably pulled something, or sprained an ankle—he’s getting too old for this. “You gonna be alright for a few minutes?”

All Castiel does is nod, leaving Dean to exit the guest bedroom and head for the master, where Sam is sprawled out on the bed, white linens pulled up to his neck while he faces the window, snoring. At least he’s sleeping and drugged up, a few Ibuprofen missing from the bottle on the bedside table alongside a half-empty glass of water. There’s no fever, Dean determines, his hand on Sam’s forehead, the only part of him visible above the blankets. “‘M fine,” Sam complains, not as asleep as Dean thought, and halfheartedly attempts to bat Dean’s hand away.

Sam ends up slumping back onto the pillows, eyes pulled into a perpetual glare. Dean just smiles and pats his shoulder—he can barely bring himself to laugh, let alone talk. It’s all still too fresh, the sight of Sam going down first, only to have it turn on Dean when he fought back. Dean took the worst of it—Sam gets to deal with the memories of watching his brother nearly be eviscerated, though. “Just checking,” Dean says and steps back, but not before Sam coughs, mostly to catch his attention.

“…You’re fine though, right?” Sam asks, leaning up on his good shoulder. His shirt is hanging off to one side, neck and chest baring multiple purpling bruises, along with one underneath his eye.

God, what a piece of work they are. “I’m… I’m good,” Dean manages, glancing down at himself. “Good as I’ll get, at least.” Castiel’s patchwork decorates Dean’s bare chest and the rest of him, stitches done one by one with a skilled hand, yet to be covered with whatever he has left of the bandages in his kit. But he’s alive—all three of them are, alone in the woods in Montana in Rufus’ dilapidated cabin, but they’re alive and safe, breathing.

 _Alive_.

“I’m glad,” Sam says, genuine, and lays back down; Dean pulls the covers back over Sam’s shoulder before he can stop himself, more of a reflex nowadays. Either way, Sam doesn’t fight it, just settles into the pillows. “I’d hate for you to die on Christmas.”

Dean snorts, gives Sam another pat before he moves to leave. “I don’t think I’m really ‘Ghost of Christmas Past’ material,” he adds, almost verging on a laugh.

Sam just snuffles and kicks his foot underneath the blankets. “Go rest, idiot.”

“Right back at you.”

In the other bedroom, Castiel is still on the bed, now down to his boxers and flipping through his phone for something Dean can’t see. Not that he’s looking, privacy and all, but Castiel is oddly secretive about it, his back to the window, facing the door. “Look like you got somethin’ on your mind,” Dean says, closing the door behind him and padding across the floor in bloodstained socks. His pants are ready for the trash, he guesses, after having pulled them off hours ago, torn and bloodied and smelling of dead monster cat.

Now, he stands before Castiel in his boxer briefs, every scar and wound visible in the dim light of the room, the only illumination the mid-afternoon light pouring through the window, bouncing off the snow. It’s cold, but he can’t bring himself to care; adrenaline is finally leaving his bones, and even though he should rest or at least lay down, he can’t sit still, the fear of his own mortality, along with Sam and Castiel’s, still heavy on his mind.

And Castiel takes notice, setting his phone down on the bed and the low hum of some familiar song beginning to play through the speakers. “I know this,” Dean mutters while Castiel stands, standing on bare feet before him and taking one of Dean’s hands in his own, leading it to his waist. All Dean does—and all he can do—is hold on, swallow down anxiety-induced fear when Castiel pulls him close, until Dean’s arms are around Castiel’s waist and Castiel’s encircle his neck. “You plannin’ to serenade me on Christmas Eve, Cas?”

_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_  
_Jack Frost nipping at your nose_  
_Yuletide carols being sung by a choir_  
_And folks dressed up like Eskimos_

“You need a distraction, and I need to touch you,” Castiel says, firm, something Dean can hold onto forever. “Dance with me.”

It’s not so much of a dance as it is slowly swaying in each other’s presence, their foreheads pressed together while Nat King Cole croons in the background, just loud enough to be heard over their footsteps creaking on the old wooden floors. It’s a miracle they don’t fall through, but Dean will take it for what it is, lets his eyes slip closed when their heart rates fall into sync, one beat after another.

_Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe_  
_Help to make the season bright_  
_Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow_  
_Will find it hard to sleep tonight_

Until Castiel starts to sing along. The soft rumble of his voice startles Dean somewhat, at least until he can discern that Castiel is actually speaking words, oddly melodic and nothing like Dean expected. Sure, Castiel hums when he wanders and when they’re researching, but Dean’s never heard him sing before, and never in such proximity.

Entranced, Dean watches Castiel’s lips move through half lidded eyes, still softly swaying with Castiel’s guidance, until he’s mouthing along, his voice ultimately failing him, exhausted. From the hunt, from years of running, from decades of being ripped apart and pieced back together—he’s tired, worn to the bone, desperate for an out.

_They know that Santa's on his way_  
_He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_  
_And every mother's child is gonna spy_  
_To see if reindeer really know how to fly_

For once, he wants to rest.

Castiel wipes away the wetness he barely feels welling from his eyes, letting it collect on his thumb. Just that and Castiel’s voice is enough to break him, and in the midst of the song, Dean lets his head rest on Castiel’s uninjured shoulder and revels in the warmth of Castiel’s hands on his nape, fingers mussing through his hair while his voice soothes something aching in his chest, something he hadn’t known needed to be mended, just from touch alone.

_And so I'm offering this simple phrase_  
_To kids from one to ninety-two_  
_Although it's been said many times, many ways_  
_Merry Christmas to you_

“…I’m tired,” Dean admits after a long second, absently clenching and unclenching his fists behind Castiel’s back, eventually settling on his hips. Castiel hums near his ear, following along to an instrumental track, something equally cheesy and holiday themed; no matter the song, Dean can’t bring himself to care. “’M tired, Cas.”

Castiel shushes him, pressing a kiss to his hair, just above his ear. “I know,” he says, hand traveling the length of Dean’s back, a slow slide that grounds Dean to the very floor he stands on, to the arms that hold him so gently, like he’s precious, like he’s something to be cherished. “It’s been a long day.”

“’S not just that.” Reluctantly, Dean stills, their dance halting while he breathes in the scent of lingering blood and rot from Castiel’s skin, something a single shower can never really wash away. “You… You know why, right? All of this…”

And bless him, Castiel nods. He pulls away long enough to tug Dean to the bed, helping him lay against the pillows without straining his shoulder or anything else, lest they risk him bleeding onto the bedding. Just what they need, to leave an already abandoned cabin with a bed stained in indeterminate blood. “We can slow down, if that’s what you’re saying,” Castiel offers, covering Dean with the threadbare bedding, riddled with moth eaten holes. There are blankets in the closet in decidedly better shape, but he doesn’t mention it, not while Castiel is talking and petting through his hair. “…I think it’s time we all settled, really.”

“You just sayin’ that ‘cause you got clocked?” Dean attempts to joke, ultimately failing. It isn’t funny anyway, none of this is. They could all be dead now, or one of them, or two—hell, Dean could’ve watched his brother and his best friend die and been forced to burn their bodies. He shakes off the thought and hides turns his face to the wall, a temporary respite from having to bear Castiel staring at him, checking his wounds. “Don’t gotta quit, but just… I’m tired of seeing myself like this.” He laughs, broken. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any skin left to scar, my knee’s gonna shatter if I land on it again, and I’m a wall away from breaking my back.”

Softly, he feels Castiel lower himself onto the bed at his side, wincing through his teeth until he settles on his uninjured side, an arm slung around Dean’s waist. The intimacy isn’t what surprises him—it’s how willingly they fall into it that has his heart stuttering, breath caught in his throat. “Two weeks,” Castiel says, a suggestion. “One to heal, and one where none of us look for a case. We’ll see where we go from there.”

Two weeks of downtime—cabin fever might kill him before the monsters do, but it's a risk he’s willing to take. “Think we can do that,” Dean bites through a yawn. With a bit of maneuvering, he manages to get his arm around Castiel’s waist, well away from the gashes, hand resting on the curve of his hip; warm skin greets him under the blanket, comfort in the chill of the night. Outside, the snow continues to fall, thicker now, almost a white barrage in the forest beyond the window. Hopefully they can leave tomorrow, or whenever the weather clears; he hasn’t used snow chains in years, and the higher the drifts rise, the more likely he’ll have to drag them out of the spare tire well.

“Sleep,” Castiel says, a whisper in the dark, his bruised hand splayed over Dean’s chest.

 _No one can see me here_ , Dean tells himself, reaching up with his free hand to cover Castiel’s, letting their fingers thread together, seamless. “Merry Christmas,” Dean sighs, eyes slipping closed.

For a long second, Castiel remains silent, at least until he kisses Dean’s shoulder, afterwards blowing out a warm breath. It calms him, just a little, enough to let him breathe easier in the night. “Merry Christmas,” Castiel murmurs, and sleeps, his touch gone slack.

Dean just holds on tighter, turning to kiss the top of Castiel’s head. He’s out before he can even begin to comprehend just what it all means. Come morning, he’ll think on it, mull it over until it’s all that’s on his mind.

For now, he rests.

 

_Although it's been said many times, many ways  
Merry Christmas to you_

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I think I wrote most of this in one day and then forgot about it, and somehow worked around to finishing it. I really enjoyed it! My prompt for the SPN Holiday Mixtape was Nat King Cole's ["The Christmas Song."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wc2keqVQooM) I also did the little art at the beginning, and as you can see I am master artist. Also, thanks to Jad for betaing for me at the last minute!
> 
> My other entry posts on December 15th!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Who They Are](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294177) by [ElusiveDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElusiveDelirium/pseuds/ElusiveDelirium)




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